


My Dreams Made Music In the Night

by coconutcluster



Category: Sanders Sides (Web Series)
Genre: M/M, Prinxiety - Freeform, This is, bad description im so sorry, hm, i dont know what this is, i wanted to write about stars, idk man, uh
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-19
Updated: 2018-12-19
Packaged: 2019-09-22 15:54:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,796
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17062637
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coconutcluster/pseuds/coconutcluster
Summary: Virgil never believed in shooting stars - not really, anyway - but when one crosses the sky one night, he makes a wish (if you can even call it that) on impulse, and soon finds himself waiting for it again, night after night.(Or, rather, waiting for the golden figure in his dreams that always follows.)





	My Dreams Made Music In the Night

Virgil never expected life to be easy.

As a child, he didn’t really _expect_ life at all, really; it just… was. _He_ just was. He existed, and he was perfectly fine with that fact, and he lived every moment as its own lifetime, as children do, where every second is a new world, unexplored and filled with opportunity. (Sure, that opportunity usually consisted of getting a new bruise or eating something else nonedible, but they were opportunities nonetheless.)

And as he got older, he knew the challenges of life would be plenty. His parents never hesitated to remind him of college, bills, arguments and conflict and heartbreak, all wrapped into one disappointing present of adulthood - he wasn’t exactly a pessimist, but they made it pretty easy to assume the role of one - and he made sure to build a casing around himself, a shield against the bullets of the unknown beyond. He was wary with friends, kept to himself, mostly (though he did have a bright, bespectacled puffball as a best friend), and he managed just fine like that. Quiet. Stoic. Alone. His therapist in junior year of college said it was unhealthy.

“Keeping all your feelings bottled up,” Picani would start slowly, blinking quickly behind those tortoise-shell glasses as they sat in their sessions, Virgil slumped in the couch across from the psychologist’s knick-knack-covered desk, “can make ya real stressed out, kiddo-”

“I’m already stressed out,” Virgil always interrupted; Picani would just glance at him and sigh.

“Have you ever thought about keeping a journal?”

And Virgil’s face would pucker up, like the suggestion brought a sour taste to his mouth - the lemon of therapy, journal-keeping was: pleasant, if you were about that sort of thing, but bitter and ultimately very, very upsetting if you weren’t. And Virgil was not for that idea. Not at all. (He didn’t need to be confused about life on paper; he got enough of it in his head.)

It wasn’t until one day, when he was recounting his frustrations about the third journal his mom had sent him this month to Patton, that he discovered something… interesting.

“I look at the stars when I’m sad,” Patton said brightly to him, just after Virgil had tossed the journal into a box under his desk with five other empty journals laying forlornly atop one another.

Virgil frowned. “Why the stars? What good does that do?”

Patton just shrugged, his mouth twitching into a crooked smile, and dimples whittled themselves into his freckled cheeks. “I dunno. It’s nice to know that there’s more to the universe than whatever is down here that makes me upset - I’m not everything, which means my problems aren’t, either.” He looked to Virgil, whose face was pinched with disbelief. “It’s humbling.”

Virgil didn’t comment on that; he just nodded, and they finished their homework as if the conversation was nothing but a breeze through the window.

But that night, after Patton said his goodbyes and headed back to his dorm, Virgil went to his cramped little balcony and stared at the sky, packed with stars - it was surprising, really, considering the light pollution just a few cities over, not that Virgil was complaining about the view. His eyes scanned the darkness, looking for constellations, planets, answers, anything would be good, really. But he didn’t know any constellations; he couldn’t tell Venus from tail lights on a passing airplane; and he sure as Hell couldn’t find any answers in a jumble of fireflies in the sky.

Just as he sighed and turned on his heel to go back to his room and sleep, a streak of white danced across the sky.

Virgil blinked up at it, eyes wide - it was a shooting star, he knew that, and he also knew you were supposed to make a wish on them, even if he didn’t believe in it all, so he watched its brilliance disappear into the black night as he thought, almost pitifully, _Please come back_.

It was a stupid wish. It wasn’t even a wish, really, since he didn’t say “I wish” at the beginning- oh, God, would that make it null? Did he miss his chance at a shooting star?

Wait, no. His wish was null because a meteor plummeting towards Earth did nothing to honor his hopeful thoughts. He could perform with a mariachi band, for Pete’s sake, and it would do nothing. It did nothing.

Because it was nothing.

That didn’t stop Virgil from watching the stars for ten more minutes, waiting for another white streak of hope.

 

That night, Virgil slept easily for the first time in weeks (college and eight coffees a day did a wonder on his sleep schedule). His dreams were actual dreams, pleasantly lacking the weird, twisted imagery of the nightmares he was so used to- his _dream_ , he should say, since there was only one he could really remember.

In it, he was in a field of deep red flowers, almost roses, but their petals were laced with shards of something that glowed under the moon’s beams overhead; Virgil sat cross-legged in them, his eyes drifting comfortably shut, the tension in his shoulders gone as his fingertips grazed the tops of the flowers around him, their velvety petals sending tingles up his arms. The night air was quiet, soft, filled with the gentle buzz of crickets and the occasional whisper of wind through the trees at the edges of the field.

A flash of white shone behind his eyelids.

He opened his eyes, blinking quickly, to find a boy dressed in a white prince’s uniform that seemed to glimmer with gold under the moon, with a golden sash across his chest and messy brown waves falling into his eyes as he smiled down at Virgil. (His smile was warm, like Patton’s, but he only had one dimple, giving him a crooked beam that made Virgil’s face grow warm.) The boy wordlessly held out a gloved hand, palm up; Virgil stared at it for a moment before slipping his hand on top.

The boy tugged him up and into the center of the field, his footsteps silent in between the flowers that seemed to part for him, letting Virgil stumble through the cleared path before falling back into place with a soft _whoosh_. When the pair reached the middle of the clearing, the boy gently placed a hand on Virgil’s waist and shifted to let Virgil put a hand on his shoulder, keeping their free fingers interlocked, before raising his chin and giving him another warm smile.

Virgil’s mouth curled up at the edges as the boy pulled them into a waltz through the flowers - he’d never been one for dancing, but the steps seemed to come to him with ease, though it definitely helped to be guided by the boy’s knowing fluidity - and he closed his eyes, letting the cool air brush across his face, his mind emptying of anything other than the here and now, the feeling of the boy’s hand on his waist, their interlaced fingers, the quiet choir of crickets and owls drifting through his head, the flowers brushed against his ankles as he danced.

He just… was.

The waltz ended far too soon; the boy pulled his hands from Virgil’s, and he gave an overdramatic bow that made Virgil laugh despite the ache in his chest, the wish to keep dancing forever and ever until all that existed was him and the flowers and the boy with the shining and smile and golden sash.

With one last glance to the sky, Virgil sighed, closed his eyes, and woke up.

 

The next night, he was back on the balcony. He didn’t know why. There was no reason to watch the stars again - it had done nothing to ease his worries the night before, only made him more anxious about a flaming rock in the sky - but maybe, just maybe, he had an inkling hope that following the same routine would lead to a golden prince in his dreams again.

He hadn’t told anyone about the dream, not even Patton. It felt like something he should keep to himself- something he _wanted_ to keep to himself, a secret rendezvous all his own. He knew it wasn’t real, obviously, but it didn’t stop a fond smile crossing his face as he remembered the field of flowers underneath his feet.

His eyes started to drift shut just as another pale streak pierced the sky.

Virgil stared at it, eyebrows furrowed, squinting as he realized it was another shooting star. He couldn’t remember seeing a shooting star before in his life, and now he’d seen two in two nights - he didn’t dwell on the fact too long, though, before squeezing his eyes shut and repeating in his head, over and over, _Thank you._

What it had done to be thanked, he wasn’t quite sure, but it felt appropriate, so it was what he thought until he opened his eyes a moment later and found the star gone, disappeared into the horizon once again. The hollow disappointment he’d felt the night before was absent as he headed back inside and went to bed.

When he opened his eyes, he was back in the field, and his face broke out into a smile before he even looked around.

The flowers carried a soft scent of vanilla that he hadn’t noticed the night before, enveloping him like a hug; he had to resist the urge the urge to fall back into them and sleep forever in their comfort. It was an easier resistance, though, as a flash of white danced in the middle of the field. Virgil was already up on his feet as the boy with the sash appeared in its place a moment later, hands folded neatly behind his back and almond eyes scanning the clearing - his face brightened as his gaze landed on the other boy, and he sent a shining beam like a beacon for Virgil to his find a way across the sea of flowers. They met halfway, the boy’s hands outstretched for Virgil to take. And they danced.

Just as Virgil felt their waltz come to an end, the moonlight quickly fading, the boy leaned forward and whispered with a tiny smile, “You’re welcome.”

 

It was the same the next night, and the night after, and the night after that: Virgil went out to his balcony, watched the sky for a shooting star and made a wish (though it was always more of a statement than a wish, but whatever), went to bed, and woke up in the field to dance with the golden boy before waking up in bed as normal.

It was routine, and Virgil was beginning to suspect it was a bit more than wishful thinking.

When he woke up in the field that night, the boy was already sitting cross-legged in the flowers beside him, weaving a chain of glittering blossoms into a crown. Virgil watched his hands work for a few moments, fluid and practiced - the boy glanced up at him. He raised his eyebrows, as if prompting Virgil to talk, like he knew the other boy had come prepared.

Virgil took a deep breath, filling his lungs with the vanilla embrace of the flowers under his fingers, and said slowly, “You’re the shooting star.”

The boy smiled.

It was different from his incandescent beam; this one was small, wan, almost regretful as he nodded, setting the unfinished flower crown on the ground and lacing his fingers together in his lap. “I’m sorry I didn’t say something sooner,” he said softly - his voice was a honeyed song against the timbre of the woods behind them, and Virgil’s heart soared in hearing its full tone for the first time, though it was dampened by the sadness laced through the boy’s words. “I didn’t know if you’d believe me.”

He almost didn’t, in all honesty. It was such a fantastical concept to him, to dance with a shooting star, to dance with a boy who also happened to be a friggin’ shooting star, and a part of him had always been slightly convinced that this was all some coffee-induced hallucination. But a bigger part of him knew better.

“It’s okay,” he finally replied. The boy glanced at him again, eyes shining.

“I’m Roman,” he said, holding a hand out for Virgil to shake; when Virgil didn’t take it, he met the other boy’s gaze, tilting his head to the side with a tiny, knowing smile. “You have a question.”

“Why me?”

Roman’s eyebrows shot up. “What do you mean?”

“Why…” The words got caught in his throat - he wanted so badly for this all to be real, but why, why in the world, would this ever happen to someone like him? He wasn’t special. He was a frantic college kid with unrelenting fatigue and a stack of unused journals collecting dust and disappointment under his desk. “Why are you here, with me of all people?”

Roman watched him in silence for a moment. A breeze drifted past the pair as he looked to the moon, a sigh escaping into the air as he seemed to reminisce in its pale light. “No one’s ever asked me to come back,” he said, that same sad smile on his face.

 _Please come back_. “How?”

“Hmm?”

“How has no one ever asked you to come back?” Roman just shrugged; Virgil frowned, tugging on Roman’s sleeve to get the boy to look him in the eye, and his gaze was wide and sparkling and somehow even more golden in the shadows of the trees they were perched under as he finally looked over. “Roman, you’re _amazing_ ! You’re like- like summer! Or fireworks- or a sunset, or music, or snowflakes- you’re beautiful and indescribable and I’m so bad at words and I don’t even know where to _start_ but-” Virgil stopped to catch his breath, letting his hands fall from their excited arcs through the air, and met Roman’s eyes, a smile pulling at his mouth. “You’re magnificent.”

The field went quiet as Roman stared at him, mouth agape and eyes wide, before the boy’s face broke out into that shining, golden beam. He grabbed Virgil’s hand, lacing their fingers together. “I think you’re magnificent, too.” He bit the inside of his cheek, eyes cloudy for a moment, before he blurted, “You could come with me.”

Virgil’s smile fell. “With you?”

“As a star,” Roman continued, pointing upwards to the sky. “You could be up there with me! It would take some arranging, of course, but we could do it now, or soon, at least. We could dance every night.”

Virgil stared up at the moon, at the sky full of pearlescent stars and constellations he’d just begun to make out every night.

He thought of the view from his balcony; he thought of Patton’s smiling, freckled face; he thought of the boy down the hall with the glasses and tie that Patton was always gushing about, though Virgil hadn’t met him yet and was determined to do it; he thought of Picani’s helpful urges and his parents’ best efforts; and he thought of the journals sitting beneath his desk, empty for now, but perhaps not always.

“I can’t,” he whispered. He saw Roman’s shoulders fall out of the corner of his eye. “I’m sorry, Roman-”

“Don’t be. I understand,” Roman smiled, and when Virgil looked in his eyes, he knew he _did_ understand. There was a story in his gaze that Virgil didn’t know how to read, but he had a feeling there was something he didn’t quite understand about the stars yet. “I’ll be here every night, if you ever want to visit.”

And Virgil knew he wasn’t lying to Roman when he said, “I will.”

 

When he woke up the next morning, Virgil headed straight for his desk.

The journals were still there - as if they’d have moved - covered in a thin layer of dust and a few flimsy cobwebs that he brushed away to stare at their covers, to flip through the empty pages and trace the lines with his eyes. For the first time since he’d gotten them, he had the urge to fill their empty space.

He scrawled in his chicken-scratch handwriting on the first page; he wrote hesitantly at first, keeping the notebooks tucked away when he wasn’t using them. But as the weeks went by, he  let the words flow for themselves - he wrote of anxieties, and wishful thinking, and disappointment, and recovery, letting the casing he’d around himself crumble to pieces, if just onto the pristine pages of an old journal.

And, in a different notebook, he detailed the story of a boy who fell in love with a shooting star.

 


End file.
